


Linchpin

by ktula



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, JCR's charm offensive, M/M, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Polyamory, all historical accuracy lost in translation, on-the-fly consent negotiation, well-deserved John Ross shade, winter aesthetics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: Francis Crozier, recently returned to London from Tasmania, is in a bit of a transitional period of his life. Thomas Blanky has always been a stable anchor for him, and Blanky's coffeeshop has always been somewhere for Francis to go.This time, however, there's aFor Salesign out front.This time, everything is changing.(Well, notquiteeverything.)
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Esther Blanky/Thomas Blanky, Lady Ann Ross & Sir James Clark Ross, Sophia Cracroft & Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Thomas Blanky/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38
Collections: The Two Captains Fest 2020





	Linchpin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annecoulmanross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/gifts).



> Thank you to tulliolaciceronis, who provided delightful prompts, and who writes wonderful, wonderful pieces which get me right in my heart. (If you're not already reading [Old Friend, Come Back Home](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653634), please treat yourself.)
> 
> No content notes for this one, other than what's in the tags.

_frmc: u around monday or closed_

_Blanky: Closed to public, come round back._

_frmc: see you next tuesday_

_Blanky: lol_

_frmc: ?????_

_Blanky: I’ll leave the back door open for you on Monday._

_frmc: thx_

_frmc: u didn’t ask_

_Blanky: No, I did not._

_frmc: well i didn’t either_

_frmc: she doesn’t need me in her life_

_frmc: one proposal was enough_

_frmc: don’t know who I was kidding rly_

_Blanky: Come by the coffeeshop when you get in, Frank._

_Blanky: Got some stuff to chat about anyways._

_frmc: k_

☕

Francis curls his fingers around the warm mug of coffee, cradles it in his hands like it’s going to warm him up, even though there’s no chance of that, not really. He’s been…thirty hours travelling. Maybe closer to forty. The clock on the wall grounds him in time, and the familiar surroundings of the coffeeshop in space. “Thank you for opening up this early.”

“Can’t sleep in worth shite these days, you know that,” Blanky says easily, setting down the bag of coffee beans he’s carried in from the back.

“Kids are on holiday countdown, I suppose,” Francis says. There’s snow falling outside, fat flakes drifting down past the window. It’s twenty degrees back in Hobart. Probably about minus five in London, but damp. He still feels cold inside his coat, even though he shouldn’t. It hadn’t mattered before, when he was used to being up north, but Tasmania has softened him. Rotted him from the inside out, probably. Like an old yogurt in the back of the fridge, past its expiry date.

“Aye,” Blanky says. “So I take it you came in from the back alley?”

“Cab driver got turned around,” Francis grumbles. “Told him to just let me out, I’d walk the last bit of it. Why?”

“Got a for sale sign out front,” Blanky says casually, as though he’s commenting on the weather. “Figured that’d be the first thing out of your mouth if you’d seen it.”

Francis blinks at him. Sets his coffee cup down on the counter with a distinct _thunk_ , and stomps over closer to the window and—oh, there it is.

There’s the sign, displayed right outside the front door. _FOR SALE_ in large letters, with a number underneath it, and it’s Blanky’s choice, it’s obviously Blanky’s choice, but it feels like Francis had been moving forward, or trying to, anyway, and now he’s been frozen into place, held there while the landscape changes around him.

“Didn’t know you were retiring,” he mutters as he returns to his stool, picks the mug back up again.

“Ah, it’s not as bad as all that,” Blanky says. “Don’t give a toss about the actual running of the thing, would prefer to just focus on the coffee. Thought I’d see if you wanted to buy it, Frank.”

Francis glances up at him, meets Blanky’s eyes directly, and almost immediately looks away. “Not the guy for you,” he says softly.

Blanky cackles, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty coffeeshop.

Francis scowls into his mug. “What.”

“Weren’t that long ago that—”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Francis warns.

Blanky is still laughing as he goes into the back room, though he’s mostly composed himself when he comes back out again, carrying a battered notebook that he chucks onto the counter, pulling a stool up so that he’s sitting across from Francis.

“Anyway,” Francis says, “you won’t have a problem selling it.”

“True enough,” Blanky says, his pen in his mouth and his brow furrowed as he stares down at the scrawls in the notebook, which look as though they’re trying their best to be a schedule.

(Francis isn’t getting involved. He doesn’t need to _invest_ in anything right now except maybe…himself. Whatever people are supposed to do during a midlife crisis.)

But he can’t help but pick at a scab, even when he knows he shouldn’t. “You know the Admiralty will be after it. Add it to the chain. Hasn’t Franklin got Fitzjames running about buying up all the indie places?”

Blanky scoffs. “Well, he can piss up a rope, for all the good it’ll do him here.” He taps his pen against the wrinkled pages of his notebook, crosses his arms over his chest. “Matter of fact, you know who else came by the other day?”

Francis raises his eyebrow.

“Ross.”

Francis rolls his eyes. “What the Christ for?”

“Wanted to buy,” Blanky says. “Overheard Fitzjames yapping about it at the flagship Admiralty building, was over here by the end of the day askin’ questions.”

“That’s fucking rich,” Francis says bitterly. “Wasn’t enough he nearly killed the lot of you last time—what the fuck was it, lung disease?”

“Aye,” Blanky says. “Could hardly fuckin’ breathe when the roasters were going—but that was the elder Ross.”

“Yeah, that’s what I—”

“It were his nephew that came by. The younger Ross. James Clark. You know, the handsome one.”

“Don’t recall,” Francis says gruffly, only that’s a lie, because he goddamn well does—how couldn’t he? Red hair, longer than it really needs to be, light eyes, nice smile. Dimples, which Francis is only aware of because he’d seen the man at some—god, what the hell was the function? Whatever it was, Ross was smiling his arse off, and Francis had specifically avoided him for...a number of reasons.

(The handsomeness was only one, but damned if Francis can remember the other six.)

“I’ll introduce you,” Blanky says. “He’s coming by in the next hour or so.”

And that’s Francis’ cue. He’s still raw from Tasmania, and he’s not up to seeing other people right now. “Can’t stay,” he lies. “Got an appointment.” He almost hopes Blanky asks, because he hasn’t prepared any further details for an excuse, and he’d almost like to be castigated for it.

“Suit yourself,” Blanky says easily.

“Right.” Not being caught in his own lie is an odd stinging disappointment of its own. Francis drains the last of his coffee, sets the mug down. Stands up, and then stills as Blanky leans over the counter, puts his hand on the back of Francis’ head, and tugs their foreheads together.

Francis should pull back, but he tips his face against Blanky’s instead, lets their lips press together. Blanky is a good kisser. Always has been. Francis’ lips are dry, chapped from travel, and he hasn’t had a chance to shower since the plane—but it doesn’t matter to Blanky, never has.

When Francis pulls away, he’s a bit unsteady with it, but not unsteady enough that he doesn’t catch the soft look in Blanky’s eyes, sympathy that hits just as surely as a punch.

“Here, now,” Francis says, embarrassed. “Don’t get sentimental on me, I don’t need coddling.” _Tasmania wasn’t that bad_ , he wants to say. _It was good, before and after. It’s fine even now. We’re still friends, she and I._

“Wasn’t coddling you,” Blanky says, pulling back and grinning, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’ll see you later today, whenever you’re through. Key’s in the usual place.”

“I could—”

Blanky shakes his head. “Spare room’s already made up. Don’t make yourself lonely for no reason, Frank.”

Francis hesitates, and then nods. Shoulders his bag. Leaves.

☕

There are a number of people Francis would willingly let down. Anyone associated with the Admiralty fleet of coffeeshops, for one. Anyone who cares more about profits than people, for two. Esther Blanky isn’t in either of those categories, though, and so after having spent most of the day wandering around London, poking at his own failure to make anything of his life as though it’s a bruise that’ll mend by being prodded at, Francis swallows his pride, and heads over to the Blankys’. He has a couple bottles of non-alcoholic cider tucked in the battered cloth bag he uses when he’s shopping. Doesn’t recognize the brand, but it was expensive enough that it should be nice, and it’s the least he can do, really.

“Good to see you, Frank,” Esther says fondly as Francis comes in through the back, tucking the spare key in his pocket where it’ll stay until he gives up on London, heads out to Banbridge.

“Thanks,” Francis says, accepting her warm embrace. “It’s good to see you too.”

“There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry,” she says. “Thomas is just in the study.”

Francis gestures at her coat. “Heading out?”

“Munch,” she says brightly. “You know how it is. You’re welcome with, if you’d like.”

Francis smiles, shakes his head. “I’ll pass, thanks. I’ll stop and say hi to Thomas, head to bed. Jet lag’s got me all disoriented.”

“Course,” she says. She pats his arm, lowers her voice. “You boys have a nice night, now.”

Francis musters an eyebrow raise, even though his exhaustion is threatening to do him in. “I’m likely to fall asleep on your damn couch, Esther.”

She throws her head back and laughs, pats his cheek as she heads out the door. “Tell him not to bother waiting up for me. And remind him the children have school in the morning.”

Francis nods, though he feels like the reminder is for his benefit, and not Blanky’s. He wanders through their house, taking note of the things that have changed since last time. The decor is warm, just as it always is, everything in its place. The kids have gotten older—gone are the balls and stuffed animals that used to lurk in random corners. There are jackets thrown onto the backs of chairs, now, and pencil crayons left scattered by sketchbooks. Francis picks up a book left on the kitchen table, squints at the cover. _Choose Your Own Adventure: Arctic Expedition._ Whoever did the cover illustration had only a passing familiarity with polar bears at best, because the beast on the cover has a horrifically elongated neck, and oddly human eyes.

He helps himself to a glass of water from the fridge, slides the ciders into an empty spot on the bottom shelf. Blanky’s been baking again—there’s a pie cooling on the counter, and the remainder of a batch of black and white cookies beside it. Francis is stuck with a sudden stab of gratefulness that he accepted their offer to stay here—he’d very nearly gone back on his word, gotten a hotel room, but it’s nice to be somewhere familiar when he’s feeling this unsettled. From the kitchen, he can hear the murmur of voices from the study. It’d be a surprise and a half to find that Blanky has finally gone and put a television in the damn thing.

Francis taps his knuckles on the back of the door to the study, and steps inside.

“There’s the man of the hour,” Blanky says. His moccasined feet are up on his desk, flesh and prosthetic both, and he’s leaning back in his chair with the confidence of a man who knows exactly how far his own desk chair will go before it spills him out on his arse. “Come in, Frank, I was just telling James how you’d hauled my carcass out of the fire back when I was still getting the coffeeshop started.”

“Not literally, I hope,” says the man lounging casually on the couch against the wall, and oh, for _fuck’s_ sake, if it’s possible for James Clark Ross to have gotten any handsomer in the handful of years since Francis had last seen him, he’s achieved it, and then some. They’ve never been directly introduced, and it’s precisely because of _this_ —Ross is handsome enough from a distance.

Close up, he’s _devastating_.

Francis is just tired enough that he forgets to compose his face, just side-eyes Blanky. “Hardly necessary to make up heroics about me.”

Blanky ignores him completely. “Frank, this is James Clark Ross...you know, the younger Ross.”

The side of Ross’ mouth quirks. “As it were. And call me James, please.”

Blanky grins. “James, this is Francis Crozier. Like I said. Hauled me out of the fire. Was useful on a number of other occasions as well.”

Francis rolls his eyes. Catches movement in the corner of his vision, shakes his head. “No, don’t—don’t get up.”

James raises his eyebrows, pats the couch next to him. “Well, if you won’t let me up, at least come and sit next to me, I can’t have you standing there all night, you look exhausted.”

It’s the kind of observation that usually gets Francis’ back up, but James has the gift of being able to say something like that not only without offense, but with enough social grace to it that Francis is, unfortunately, charmed instead. God _damn_ it.

He’s also entirely too close to James when he sits down on the couch, tries to cover the rush of self-consciousness by patting the upholstry. “Can’t believe with all the other upgrades you’ve made to the house that you haven’t swapped this couch out yet.”

Blanky chuckles in that ribald way he has that sets the back of Francis’ neck hot, and Francis is treated with a number of suddenly emergent memories of the type of activities he and Blanky had once been up to on said couch.

(Well, fine. It was more than once, both while Blanky was single, and with Esther’s consent when he wasn’t. It was a hell of a lot more than once, and it was likely to be a hell of a lot more than once again.)

“Couch isn’t that bad,” James murmurs beside him.

Now it’s not just the back of Francis’ neck that’s hot, but his entire face, because damn whatever James thinks—now that Francis has _started_ thinking about it, it isn’t exactly easy to _stop_. The study isn’t all that large, and James’ knee is very nearly touching his, and Blanky, damn him, isn’t saying a fucking thing, he’s just sitting there, balancing on the back two legs of his chair like he hasn’t a goddamn care in the world.

“Fair enough,” Francis manages, on the off-chance that James was expecting a response from him. “Anyway, I’m not staying long. Jet lag.”

James glances at his watch, winces. “God, I wasn’t paying attention to the time either—said I wouldn’t keep you, and here I’ve overstayed completely.” He swallows back the rest of whatever was in his mug. “You’ll be in town a while, Francis?”

Francis nods, and is nearly blinded by James’ answering grin, by the way his eyes crinkle in the corners. James stands, and the room is definitively too small, then. There’s no way to avoid James’ legs brushing against Francis’ knees as he sidles past. Francis shuts his eyes as James passes, but it’s not quick enough, because his jeans are snug in the back and—well.

(James is, really, a devastatingly handsome man. Not just his face.)

“I’ll be by tomorrow, Blanky,” James says cheerfully. “I’ll bring you a better proposal, since you’re quite happy to bend me over a table on the one I offered.”

“I’ll have you in an apron if you show up during rush,” Blanky says lightly. “So mind your schedule, and put your back into the damn proposal, James, or I won’t sell it at all.”

“Will do,” James says, smile wide as he tucks his hair back behind his ear. “Lovely to finally meet you, Francis, was beginning to think old Tom was trying to keep you to himself.” He glances back at Blanky. “Don’t get up, I’ll let myself out.”

Francis thinks he manages to stammer out something in response, but god, his face is burning, and downing half the glass of water that he’s somehow managed to still hang onto doesn’t help anything.

Blanky, to his credit, at least waits until the front door audibly shuts before grinning at Francis. “Alright, there, Frank?”

“Christ,” Francis says, finishing the rest of his water and cradling the empty glass just so he has something to hold. “The hell was that all about?”

“Bending him over a table, or the apron?”

“Neither,” Francis protests, although he means _both_. “The, uh. Meeting me...thing. The hell’s he got me confused with?”

Blanky’s face doesn’t change, except for the look in his eyes. “No one, Frank,” he says softly. “James hasn’t gotten you confused with anyone—is it really so hard to believe?”

☕

It is nearly impossible to believe. A man like James Clark Ross, who smiles that easily and charms without an ounce of effort, should have no problem getting whatever he likes, with or without Francis’ help. There’s no reason for him to brighten the moment Francis walks into Blanky’s coffeeshop the next day, there’s no reason for him to push the empty chair across from him out and offer it to Francis, and there’s no reason for Francis to accept—but, here they are, and here _he_ is.

(Up close, James smells like mulling spices. Like fresh baking. Like Christmas, even though it’s entirely too early for that. There’s no need to think about anything Christmas-related until the twentieth.)

The moment Francis sits down, James is pushing rugelach in his direction. Francis hesitates.

“For god’s sake, take one,” James says. “Or keep the plate away from me, at least.” He pats his stomach. “Christmas season is hell, I’d eat nothing but cookies if I thought I could get away with it. I did, in my twenties. Not so much anymore.”

(If James keeps talking, Francis is going to keep looking at him. He should...stop. This isn’t _about_ anything. James is just making conversation.)

“—normally travel over the holidays, but I haven’t got anyone to travel with this year, so I’m just sticking around London, perhaps I’ll head out to the Abbey for a bit if she’s got a guest room open for me. I guess it all depends on how the paperwork goes, here. This isn’t my only iron in the fire.”

Francis latches onto the word _paperwork_ , holds it like a lifeline. “Is that the offer for this place?”

(Anything to stop himself from looking at the line of buttons on James’ shirt, imagine his fingers on them, dragging from the top-most one down to the lowest one, the place where James’ shirt hangs over his jeans.)

James looks at him, and his eyes are bright. “It is.” He glances over at Blanky, chatting with one of his baristas behind the counter, and winces. “He’s right, you know.”

“Hmm?”

James leans forward, like he’s sharing a confidential secret, and Francis leans in, even though he doesn’t mean to. Even though he doesn’t necessarily want to.

(He _absolutely_ wants to.)

“The first offer I gave him was terrible. Awful, really, considering our...history.” James’ eyes drop a moment, and then return to meet Francis’.

“The hell you do that for?” Francis asks. He’s trying to sound disinterested. He _is_ disinterested. (He’s not.)

“Got in my head about it,” James admits. He’s still looking at Francis. He’s looking _directly_ at Francis. “Let other people feed me bullshit about what I should be doing.”

“Shouldn’t listen to those fucks at the Admiralty,” Francis says, approximately half a second before realizing that he’s just directly insulted James’ uncle, and if there had been any hope of—

James _laughs_ , his eyes crinkling at the corner. “Blanky warned me about you,” he says, when he’s able to talk again. “Christ, you don’t beat around the bush, do you.” He leans back, grins widely. It’s devastating.

“Character flaw,” Francis manages.

“I like it,” James says, and under the table, his foot brushes up against Francis’ calf.

☕

“Still need a manager,” James muses.

It’s three hours later. Francis is on his second cup of coffee—maybe his third—they’ve decimated the rugelach, and James has been making eyes at some of the black and white cookies behind the glass counter.

“ _You’re_ a manager,” Francis points out.

“So’re you,” James says. “And _very_ qualified, as I’ve heard.”

Francis side-eyes him. “I’m going to tell Blanky to quit telling tales about me.”

“Wasn’t Blanky I heard it from,” James says, voice low.

Francis frowns. “The fuck else is talking about me?” Winces when he realizes he’s said it out loud, glares down at the empty plate and the crumbs as though he can take the words back.

“You know Ann Coulman?” James asks curiously. “We’re—” He makes a vague hand gesture. “—close.”

“By reputation,” Francis says, hoping it comes off as suave, and not like he’s been—well. Hiding in Tasmania. Spending time with Sophia. Quietly having a midlife crisis, only spreading it out across the globe so that it’s not so obvious. France. Spain. Italy. Tasmania again. Avoiding his life to the point where he hasn’t even spoken to most of the people everyone thinks he already knows.

(He hadn’t met James Clark Ross until _now_ , and maybe if he’d met James earlier, he’d have had a hope of getting over him in private. Somewhere where nobody would have needed to see him, because Francis is cringing just thinking about what Blanky’s going to say to him later. Mooning over someone else he can’t have, over someone else that won’t look at him twice, over—)

“—friends with Sophia Cracroft,” James is saying. “She’s had nothing but...kind things to say about you, Francis.”

_No, Francis. If you asked again—if you asked right now—it would be no. I’m sorry._

“—complementary about your—”

“I have to go,” Francis says, standing up abruptly. He glances at the remainder of his coffee, gulps it back wishing it were booze. Sets the cup down harder than he needs to. Turns his face away from Blanky’s questioning look as he gets up from the table, heads straight for the back entrance. Maybe he’ll just—get something to drink. It won’t kill him. He’ll be able to stop at one.

He’ll definitely be able to stop at one.

He shoulders the back door open, steps into the alley. The cold air hits him in the face like a punch, and he sucks in a breath that stings, stops walking.

Exhales, his breath clouding in front of him.

It’s snowing again today. It’s snowing again today, and he’s been sober for this long, and he can’t just—

Franklin is still deeply embedded in the Admiralty, and Sophia is close with her uncle. If Francis maintains this...friendship with James, Sophia’s name is going to come up. He leans against the brick wall, sticks his hands in his pockets. He can’t just drink any time someone says her name. He _can’t_.

(And, more than that, he doesn’t want to—his brain just _goes_ there even when it shouldn’t, like a horrible reflex. He wants to be his best self for James, which is an impulse which should definitely be taken out and examined, even though Francis knows he won’t. He knows he’ll just ignore it.)

Without looking back, Francis hunches his shoulders and starts walking. He’s in Greenwich Park by the time his phone rings. He tugs it out of his pocket, glances at the screen. _Unknown Number_.

He sticks his phone back in his pocket without looking at it, continues tramping through the park. He shouldn’t have reacted so strongly to the mere mention of Sophia, and after he did, he should have just laughed it off and stayed, because he wants—

—oh, bloody hell.

It’s not about Sophia.

He wants _James_.

And he’s just made a complete arse of himself over it. Lovely. Great.

Francis scowls, glances up at the sky. The snow is persisting, half of it falling in flakes, and the other half melting on the way down, creating muddy slush under his boots. It’s just flat-out unpleasant, which is fine, because that’s exactly how he feels. Flat-out—

His phone buzzes again.

Francis yanks it out of his pocket, glares at the text message notification. Flips his phone open.

_Blanky: Pick up your phone._

_Blanky: JCR calling._

Francis glares at the message, because he can’t exactly look inside his chest to glare at his heart, and the ridiculous weightless _thing_ it’s trying to do.

The call comes in.

Francis stabs at the button to accept, and then listens to the tinny, indistinct voice on the other end for a moment before finally bringing it up to his ear.

“—absolutely would not have said anything if I’d known, I only knew you were away travelling, and I’d thought—”

“It’s fine,” Francis interrupts.

“—trying to make conversation—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Francis repeats.

The other end of the phone goes silent.

He could hang up now.

(He has hung up now in the past. Not for this conversation, but for equivalent conversations. Hung up, and shut the whole talk down. Generally, if he’s gruff enough, nobody calls him back. He doesn’t want to, though. Not now. Not with James.)

“I didn’t need to go tearing off like an idiot,” Francis admits, finally, because he can still hear James breathing on the other end of the line, which means he hasn’t hung up yet. “It’s—” _not you it’s me except it actually is also you because unfortunately I like you a great deal_ “—a poor reaction on my part, but you had no way of knowing in advance. Now that Blanky’s told you...”

“Technically,” James says lightly, “he hasn’t told me anything because I _didn’t_ ask, I just haranged him until he gave me your mobile so I could apologize, because I clearly fucked up something.”

“...oh.”

“And so now I have your mobile,” James says, “and I’m apologizing. Not asking for details. Just apologizing. I am sorry, Francis. And I’d like to make it up to you. Take you out for a coffee or something?”

“We were just drinking coffee,” Francis points out. He glances around himself, but there’s nothing but snowed-over grass, and a few parked cars from people who clearly hadn’t looked at the forecast before venturing out and are probably regretting that decision. “And I’m not anywhere close to anything at present.”

“Oh?”

“In Greenwich Park,” Francis admits, a bit ruefully. “I’m a fast walker when I’m frustrated at myself.”

“Well, would you like some company? I’m not far from there myself, I live in the area.”

Francis pulls his phone away from his ear, stares at it a moment. Brings it back.

“—obviously if you’d rather just be alone—”

“No, it’s fine,” Francis says quickly. “It’s godawful weather, but if you’d like to join me, you’re more than welcome.”

“Ta,” James says. “Care to give me a bit more precise directions? I’d rather not search the park from top to bottom if I can help it.”

“Sure,” Francis says, feeling an odd sort of relief. “You know where the planetarium is?”

☕

“I actually like the cold,” James says.

Francis glances over at him. It’s a bit like staring directly at the sun, in that Francis is well-aware he’s burning himself alive, but is so fascinated he’s disinclined to stop. James is wearing a ridiculous toque with a pom pom on top, and a puffy jacket that’s added a not-insignificant amount of bulk to his frame. His winter gear is all newer than Francis’, but clearly chosen for comfort more than fashion.

Francis sticks his hands a bit deeper in the pockets of his worn coat so that the frayed yarn on his fingerless mittens isn’t visible.

“It’s bracing. I like the snow.” James nudges his shoulder up companionably against Francis’. “Blanky’s always mentioning you travel, I’d love to hear about your time in Nunavut. I’ve been south, but never north.”

“It was a damn sight colder there than here,” Francis says. He hesitates, and then looks at James again. “It’s a bit of a long story, and maybe better suited to a time when we aren’t being snowed on, but if you’d really like to hear about it…”

( _Let me take you on a date, let me take you somewhere nice, let me take you somewhere where you need to lean in close just to hear me, somewhere where it’s so noisy that you won’t realize I can’t tell a story worth shit._ )

“Absolutely,” James says sincerely. “I absolutely would.”

Francis nods. Looks back down at his own feet. He feels more than a bit foolish for storming out—he could have just been normal about it, gone to the bathroom, taken a few deep breaths. There’s some damn...deep breathing thing on the Fitbit Sophia had given him, and he’s probably still got it shoved into his coat pocket. He jams his hand into his pocket, unzips the interior pocket, and starts feeling through whatever it is he’s shoved in there and forgotten about. Coins, what feels like a credit card, a stub of something that might be a movie ticket, maybe—

“If you can believe it,” James says from beside him. “I was trying to flirt with you.”

Francis stops walking, his fingers stilling in his pocket, and his heart attempting a traitorous leap out of his chest. “You were what?”

James looks at him and shrugs. “I figured, you know. Ann knows Sophia, I’m sure Sophia’s said any number of complementary things about you, because why wouldn’t she, so I was just, er. Making it up?”

“Good lord,” Francis breathes. He should keep walking, but he can’t really find it in him to move, especially when James is standing so close to him, with his cheeks flushed fetchingly from the cold, and his eyes absolutely fixed on Francis. He’s beautiful. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“You can hardly fault me,” James goes on. “I’ve been staring at your handsome face for the last few hours, it’s made me quite light-headed, I can hardly be responsible for what I’m— _mmphf_.”

Francis pulls back, licks his lips. He can taste James on them—pastry, sugar, and cold winter air. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Don’t know what came over me.”

James grins at him, brings his hand up to his lips and touches the place where Francis kissed him.

(Francis wants those hands on his body, wants to be touched by James.)

“You know, I don’t live that far from here,” James offers. “Care to let it come over you again?”

☕

“—handsome and competent and—”

“Stop,” Francis gripes, attempting to steer James through the hall and into some other part of the house, and not succeeding in doing anything but pressing him back into a wall—which, judging by the pleased sound James makes, and the way he tips his head back to allow Francis access to his throat, James does not mind at all.

Then Francis registers James’ hands. Specifically, he registers the position of James’ hands on his arse, and realizes that this is a bit further than James _not minding_. Which is good. Which is great. Which is better than Francis expected, which is—

“Can’t help it,” James says breathlessly. “I like to talk, and I don’t think anybody’s told you how gorgeous you are _nearly_ enough.”

“James,” Francis says, tugging at James’ shirt, and cursing the little tiny buttons, which are absolutely at least twice the number they should be for a standard button-up shirt. He manages to get out the phrase _would you_ before all the words leave his head, and the only thing coming out of his mouth is a low moan.

“So me touching your arse is good, then,” James says, his teeth nipping sharply at the bottom of Francis’ ear.

“Very,” Francis agrees, and _do you want me to fuck you in the hall_ very nearly leaves his mouth immediately afterward, but he bites down on it, gives up on the buttons of James’ shirt and settles for undoing his jeans as well, trailing his fingertips across the red-gold trail of hair and then trailing his fingers down over James’ underwear, which is soft, and clings to his thighs. “Sorry, rough hands.”

“Francis,” James says, his voice serious.

“Hmm?”

“Stop apologizing,” James says, taking Francis’ chin in his hand. “I’m not sorry you kissed me in the park. I refuse to be sorry that you’re here. I absolutely will not be sorry about anything else we get up to this afternoon.”

Francis looks up, conscious of how close James is, of the flush on his face, his kiss-bitten lips. God, it’s devastating just being this close to him, which is why Francis can’t help but do it. Like a particularly stupid moth to a particularly bright flame. “Okay,” he says, and he swallows after his voice cracks. “Okay.”

“Now,” James says. “I would like to give you a tour of the house.”

Francis exhales, tries to think less with his—

“We should start in the bedroom,” James says.

Francis raises his eyebrow. “Yeah?”

James’ eyes drop, and he bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says. “I think we’ll need...yeah.”

“Lead the way, then,” Francis says, in a parody of maganimosity, because at least this way, he’ll be able to watch James’ arse in his gloriously too-tight jeans.

(He suspects, by the way James walks, that James is aware of this and welcomes the attention, which Francis is all-too happy to provide.)

☕

(James Clark Ross does, in fact, have a very nice bedroom, with very comfortable pillows, and a shower large enough for two men to fit in afterwards. A shower large enough, in fact, for one man to kneel down in, on account of a somewhat shorter refractory period than expected, which can only be chalked up to, Francis hopes, a recent-ish cessation of alcohol consumption, and not, one would hope, a newly un-dormant and insatiable sex drive.)

☕

(Later than evening, Francis realizes he is absolutely wrong about his sex drive—it appears to be back with a vengeance—but he can’t quite bring himself to feel bad about it.)

☕

“You got in late last night.”

“Mmm.”

“Actually, you may not have come home at all.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s just that I’m up early because the kids have school, and admittedly, I’m making coffee at present, but I swear you just slunk in the back door—”

“I slept with him.”

“Hmm?”

“I slept with James...why are you grinning at me?”

“You happy, Frank?”

“...yes, if you must know.”

“Good. Been trying to get the two of you together for years now.”

“You could have said something.”

“Nah, wouldn’t want you to have felt obligated about it. Important that you do the last bit of it yourself...or let James do it for you.”

“...thanks for that, Blanky.”

“Anytime.”

☕

It’s been a few weeks. Francis absolutely will not admit that the thing with James was a mistake, because nothing about it is anything less than wonderful.

It is, however, somewhat lacking in appropriate timing, because James is trying his damndest to buy the coffeeshop off Blanky, and Francis is...somehow involved, just by virtue of being present, which also means that most of their dates are at said coffeeshop—or, at least, they _start_ there.

(They usually finish in the alley behind the coffeeshop, because after a day of arguing and nitpicking at the figures that James has gotten from god knows where, Francis is irritable and horny both, and very inclined to press James up against the wall for something that can really only loosely be referred to as _kissing_.)

Francis had offered, originally, to keep his nose out of whatever offer James came up with. After all, Francis has no intention of managing anything, no matter how much James wheedles him about it, and Francis’ natural disinclination toward the Admiralty means that he’s really not the person to be commenting on James’ offer for Blanky’s, because it has Admiralty written all over it…

...but if Francis doesn’t give James advice, James will just get it from someone else, and Francis is just petty enough to not let that happen.

Plus, Blanky’s his friend. If Blanky is going to sell his coffeeshop, Francis wants to make sure he gets a damn good deal for it.

☕

“Okay, so I don’t bring the coffeeshop _into_ the Admiralty fleet, persay—”

“No, James.”

“—a loose association.”

“If Blanky wanted the coffeeshop to be _loosely associated_ , he’d have done it himself.”

“You really don’t need to finger quote at me.”

“Would you like me to call him over and ask him?”

“I know exactly where those fingers have been.”

“James, dear.”

“I’m not _wrong_ , Francis.”

“...well, you’re not _right_ either.”

“What was that, I didn’t hear you.”

“You have terribly selective hearing, James.”

“Huh. How about that.”

☕

It’s late. The coffeeshop is closed, most of the lights are turned off, and it’s only the three of them.

Blanky drags a chair over to the table Francis and James are sitting at, the legs screeching on the floor.

“Mind my floor,” James says casually, and Blanky raises his eyebrows.

“Deal that good, is it?”

“Yes,” James says, pushing the papers across the table.

“Is he lying, Francis?”

“It’s tolerable,” Francis admits, and James’ hand drops from Francis’ shoulder to Francis’ lower back.

(Ideally, Blanky doesn’t notice, but Francis is well aware that he probably does.)

Blanky hums under his breath, sits down and starts flipping through the sheaf of papers. God, as if Francis needed an indication of how much time he’s spent on this (entirely too much)—he knows just by looking at Blanky’s line of sight where he is on the page, what section he’s looking at. Here’s the part that deals with what’s being purchased, and what isn’t. Here’s the part that deals with Blanky’s ongoing employment contract for the place that used to be his. Here’s the part that deals with the current value of the coffeeshop as it exists now, which is the part which Francis and James had discussed extensively, only most of Francis’ discussion was a point-by-point breakdown of exactly why the standard values that the Admiralty is using in their quest to take over indie coffeeshops are _wrong_ , and most of James’ side of the discussion was nodding, smiling, and placing his hand rather higher on Francis’ thigh than what was strictly necessary for the type of discussion they were having.

(James had admitted, afterwards, that he’d been wrong, but had woven the apology in seamlessly with a bunch of malarky about how he liked hearing Francis talk, so Francis isn’t overly convinced of the sincerity of the apology, though he hadn’t exactly dissuaded James from giving it, either.)

Blanky turns over to the next page. James’ fingers are still rubbing at Francis’ lower back through his shirt, as if _Francis_ needs soothing. He doesn’t, he doesn’t at all—he still has no stake in this, he’s refused every effort James has made to get him involved, and once he’s seen this through, once James has purchased the coffeeshop so that Blanky doesn’t have to do any of the ownership things anymore, it’ll probably be time for him to move on, do something else. He wasn’t particularly planning on staying with Blanky all that much longer anyway. It’s nearing Christmas, and his sisters will probably want to see him in Banbridge. The question of James is...a complicating factor, but James has a life, James has friends, James has his foot resting atop Francis’ under the table, and his fingers hooked on the waistband of Francis’ jeans.

“Honestly, this isn’t half-bad,” Blanky says. “I’ll have to call Esther, talk it over. And we’ll need to sit with a lawyer.”

“Of course,” James says smoothly, at the exact same time as he slips his fingers down the back of Francis’ jeans to toy with the elastic waistband of his boxers.

Fuck figuring out his travel plans, Francis decides. He’ll sort that out later.

Much later.

☕

It’s a lapse in judgement at best, which is to say—they definitely should have waited. In their defense, the lights in the back room were completely off, and they had an expectation of twenty minutes of privacy.

“James,” Francis hisses.

“I’m perfectly capable,” James mutters, “of getting these off with my teeth, but my _god_ , Francis, button flies went out of style in the nineties.”

“Get up,” Francis says in a strangled whisper, reaching for James, and only remembering at the last minute to grab his shirt—liable to get him a scolding for wrinkling the fabric—and not his hair—liable to get James to emit a noise that will be completely unmistakable for anything other than what it is. “For fuck’s sake, James, would you—”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Blanky drawls. “I just work here.”

“For _Christ’s_ sake,” Francis says, his face burning. He nudges James’ knee with his foot. “Would you get up now?”

James glances back over his shoulder at Blanky, silhouetted in the open door by the dim light still coming from behind him. “Meh. Why?”

Francis’ face burns. “James.”

“He’s got a point,” Blanky says. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He pauses, and then chuckles. “Well, it _is_ something I haven’t seen before, but it’s not an activity I’m unfamiliar with either of you performing.” He comes into the back room fully, letting the door swing shut behind him, but doesn’t bother turning on the overheads. “And I’d hate to kick you out now, I know what a rare occasion it is to get Frank to sit the fuck still. Or stand, as it were.” He pauses. “Also, I have every intention of accepting that offer for the coffeeshop, so technically, there is reason to celebrate.”

Francis nudges James with his foot again. “Please,” he rasps, his face burning.

“Shan’t,” James says. “Blanky’s got a point; it’s nearly impossible to get you to slow down for half a second. And we do need to celebrate.” He sits back on his heels, raking his eyes over Francis in a way that makes Francis want to curl up and die while simultaneously making him want to stay like this forever.

“Why don’t you come over here, Frank,” Blanky suggests. He walks slowly over to the desk, and then sits on the surface, spreads his legs and pats the desk between them. “You’ll get sore leaning against the wall like that anyway.”

“I’m old,” Francis protests, “I’m not decrepit.” But he steps away from the wall anyway, sways toward Blanky before stopping, looking down at James.

“If you’re looking for someone to stop you,” James says, “you’ll have to look in another direction.”

Francis hazards a look at Blanky, who is grinning his arse off, but stubborn enough not to say another damn word, because he’s already said his piece, and he won’t say anything more. Well. Fine.

It’s not that big a back room. It’s not that many steps for Francis to step around James, walk back over to Blanky. It’s not much effort for Francis to lean into Blanky when Blanky extends his arm, wraps it around Francis’ waist.

“There,” Blanky says in his ear. “Weren’t that hard, now.”

“S’pose not,” Francis mutters. “Christ, though, if anything, I owe you a damn apology.”

“Mmm, don’t do that,” Blanky murmurs, shifting so that Francis is between his legs, his back against Blanky’s chest. Blanky rests his head on Francis’ shoulder. “Not when we can watch this.”

James, like the drama queen he is, knows exactly when he’s being looked at, and the elaborate stretch he goes through from his kneeling position on the floor is theatrical more than practical, his arms stretching up above his head, and his arse jutting out. Then, still facing away from both of them, James extends his arm to bare his wrist, making a specific show of unbuttoning his cuff and splaying the fabric.

“Isn’t the Victorian era,” Blanky calls out. “Get your damn shirt off, James.”

“Don’t rush me,” James says calmly.

The other hand flexed, the other wrist bared. The tails of the shirt, tugged up to display bare lower back for a moment, only a moment, before drifting back down to cover his skin again. His hands in front of his body, undoing all those tiny goddamn buttons, and Francis curses James’ tailor all over again, because off-the-rack shirts do _not_ have that many buttons, he has _counted_.

And then the shirt is coming off over his head, and James Clark Ross is kneeling on the floor in his jeans and an untucked undershirt, and Francis’ head is spinning even though he’s seen James in less than that every day this week.

James is constitutionally incapable of doing anything without the addition of some type of flair, so Francis shouldn’t be surprised when he gets off the floor by putting his palms down flat and then straightening his legs, showing off his arse.

“Tease,” Francis says softly.

“I can’t hear you,” James replies.

Blanky chuckles in Francis’ ear, tightens his grip around Francis’ chest. Nuzzles into Francis’ neck. “Now,” he says. “You stay right still, and let James and I look after you.”

_This is ridiculous_ , Francis thinks, but the words don’t leave his mouth. Instead, he just swallows, watches James swagger toward him. His hands should be on his jeans, he should be stripping for them, only he’s not making any movements to do any of that, he’s just approaching Francis and Blanky, he’s just—

—oh, he’s kneeling.

He’s kneeling on the concrete floor in front of them, and his mouth is going right back to the fly of Francis’ jeans, which is exactly where it had been when they’d been—

“Planned this, didn’t you,” Francis says.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“Didn’t figure you wanted to talk about it in advance,” James says.

“You usually don’t,” Blanky adds. “You get all in your head about it.”

“Easier to get you to focus in the moment,” James says, his voice muffled and wet-sounding as he ties into Francis’ jeans with his teeth, tugging the denim over the buttons over and over and over again.

(There is absolutely nothing wrong with Francis’ jeans, and they’re just as fine now as they were in the nineties, but he can also see the benefit to a zipper right about now, and his exhale of relief when they’re finally loose is a lot louder than what he means it to be.)

Belatedly, Francis realizes that while his jeans are undone, nothing is happening. He blinks down at James. “Yeah?”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Francis says. “Suck me off, yes. Have at it, you’re the one with the audience.”

“Not strictly _just_ an audience,” Blanky says, and Francis turns his head slightly to kiss him. He tastes of coffee and familiarity, which is a stark contrast to James, who is nosing at Francis’ underwear like the absolute tease he is.

Blanky opens his mouth, and Francis moans into it just as James slips his fingers through the fly in Francis’ boxers. Francis sighs, and Blanky steadies him, squeezes his knees to brace Francis between them. Francis reaches up with one hand, tugging Blanky into a half-hug as they kiss, and reaches down with the other, rubs James’ shoulder encouragingly. Swallows back all his own protestations, because there is a hidden part of him that wants this, that wants this badly—that wants to be the center of attention, that wants to be looked after, that wants—

—oh, _fucking_ hell.

There is a part of Francis Crozier that wants public proof that James Clark Ross wants him, even if it’s only one other man who sees it. Even if Blanky is the only other person in the entire damn world who knows, Francis wants this to be shared between them now. Wants to know that this isn’t a strange figment of his imagination, that the connection they share is real, that they aren’t the only two people who— _ah_ —

“Christ, James, you’ll choke, watch yourself,” Francis warns, when he’s able to force his tongue into forming words. His voice is hollow, echoes.

(He won’t think about how close he is.)

Blanky chuckles next to his ear. “‘E knows what he’s doing, let him work.” He noses against Francis’ neck. “And quit trying to get your hand on my cock like you think I won’t notice, this is about _you_.”

James says nothing, only hums against Francis’ skin in agreement, his nose poking against Francis.

“We talked about this years ago,” Blanky continues. “Do you remember? It was right after I bought this place.”

Francis gasps, leans back against Blanky as his legs threaten to give out underneath him. Christ, that was such a long time ago. They’d been younger then, and Francis’ face had burned just as hot then as it burns now, listening to Blanky talk about finding someone else, a stranger, instructing him in how to suck Francis off just the way Francis liked it, and now when Francis looks down at James’ head moving between his legs, it’s somehow more perfect now than he’d imagined it being then.

“God,” he breathes, moving his hand from James’ shoulder to his hair, combing his fingers through the long strands. “Yeah, I remember.” He shifts his hips slightly, and James whines. “You have James in mind then?”

“Didn’t know him then,” Blanky says, his hands occupied in untucking Francis’ shirt and then sliding up his ribs. “But the moment he offered to suck my cock, yeah, I figured he might be good for it.”

“Technically,” James says breathlessly from where he’s still kneeling on the floor, “I offered some other things first.”

“You did,” Blanky agrees. “But none of the other things you offered were appropriate for a half-hour lunch break at an expo.” Blanky rubs his callus-roughened fingers over Francis’ nipples.

“Jesus,” Francis mutters. It’s been too long on this—too long since he’s been with Blanky, too long since he’s been with James, as though last night has somehow faded years back into the past—and this, the dual attention, both of them working on him, it’s threatening to tip him over entirely too early. If he could just—switch his focus, undress Blanky, bring James off with his hand, if he could just—

“Want you to come in my mouth,” James murmurs.

“Go on, Francis,” Blanky says in his ear. “Choke him with your cock.”

Francis’ knees go soft, and it’s Blanky’s arm, tight around his chest, that keeps him braced against the desk. It’s Blanky’s knees squeezed against his legs that keep him upright. Francis’ entire body is flushed and hot and he wishes, for a brief shining moment of shame and arousal both, that he had been undressed for this, that he had been exposed, that both Blanky and James were able to see him. They’ve both seen him naked before, seen him stripped and bare. They’ve never done it at the same time.

(Maybe they can. Not now, but later. Maybe there is later. Maybe there could be—)

Francis slides his hand from James’ hair to the back of James’ neck. “You good for it, James dear?”

James swallows in response, does something with his tongue that Francis can’t quite put into words, something with his tongue which nevertheless does exactly what James intends it to do, and Francis bites the inside of his cheek, hides his face in Blanky’s neck, almost, almost—

“Love you, Frank,” James says from below, his voice rough and throaty, his mouth right back on Francis immediately afterward, and it’s a good thing it is, because Francis squeezes his eyes shut and comes with James between his legs, and Thomas murmuring wordless comfort in his ear.

☕☕☕

SIX MONTHS LATER

☕☕☕

“You’re looking a little wild around the eyes, James.”

“Blanky. Hi. Is it that obvious, huh?”

“Grand opening’s going well. What’s the issue, then?”

“Well. Hypothetically.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Say that I put out some feelers for another coffeeshop.”

“Hypothetically.”

“And say that I made an offer.”

“Sure.”

“And the offer just went through.”

“Of course.”

“...what the hell am I supposed to tell Frank?”

“You tell him, James, that you purchased another coffeeshop.”

“He’s been planning a trip for us up north.”

“Well, then, you shouldn’t have bought a second coffeeshop.”

“I didn’t think it would go through so quickly?”

“Nah, don’t feed me any of that horseshit. If you didn’t want it to go through, you’d have made a shite offer, same as you did to me that first time.”

“...point taken.”

“Have a nice chat with Frank.”

“ _Blanky_ , don’t hang me out to dry like this.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely hanging you out to dry. That’s the best part of the damn sale—I’m just an employee now, and I’m not even on the clock at present. You bought a second coffeeshop, you need to cancel your vacation, you go have that conversation with your boyfriend.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

☕

It’s harder to find Frank than it should be, by which James means that he’s checked all the dark corners of the room, and the back alley, and is very nearly about to just call him in case he’s gone home early when he catches sight of a very familiar broad back nearly obscured by the opening crowds, sitting at one of the tables in the center of the room.

There. Finally.

James rolls his shoulders back, and heads over to talk to Frank. It’ll be fine, really. He just has to state his case, and then get out. No problems, no worries. Well, some worries, because Frank had been really excited about that vacation he’d started to plan, which is definitely not happening now for no other reason other than James got _bored_ and—

“—and there was absolutely no fixing it from there,” Frank is saying. “The damn reindeer bolted.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” the woman he’s talking to says. “What did you do?”

“What could we do?” Frank says, completely deadpan. “Poor thing was confused as fuck, we let it go!”

The woman erupts into unrestrained laughter, and it’s then that James recognizes her—Sophia, looking as gorgeous as ever including the part where Frank has made her laugh completely unselfconsciously, which is actually...well, James can see why Frank proposed to her, is all, and he also feels slightly petty about it in a way that he’ll probably need to unpack with Ann, at some point.

But not now. Now, his feet have taken him right up to the edge of their table, and his hand has already reached out and touched Frank on the elbow, and god, the force of Frank’s smile when he turns his head is enough to make James light-headed, even though it’s been over half a year, and he should be past all this.

(James hopes the visceral reaction just to being close to Frank never stops.)

“James, dear,” Frank says warmly. “Your event is going so well.”

“Is it?” James asks rhetorically. “I mean, it is. I just.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m _bored_ ,” James whines—and then, immediately thinking better of it, adds, “Hello, Sophia. Ann sends her best.”

“Thank you,” Sophia says, collecting herself. Followed by, “Oh, I owe her a text,” and pulling out her phone.

“What are you bored about?” Frank asks curiously.

Where to begin. “Well,” James says. “So I’m bored. And I have been for a bit.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And I thought to myself…”

“Yes?”

“It’s not great...being bored…”

Frank frowns for a moment, managing to look somehow even more handsome, before his face clears, and he leans in. “James, dear,” he says. “You can have sex with other people—”

“No,” James says immediately, followed by, “isn’t that a discussion for another time? I mean, it’s not exactly—”

Great, now Sophia is looking at them both, with an eyebrow raised.

“It’s not that,” James says, still flailing.

“Then what—”

“I bought another coffeeshop,” he blurts.

Frank blinks at him. “You were bored...and you bought another coffeeshop.”

“Yes,” James says, relieved. “That’s—yes, exactly. I was bored, and I bought another coffeeshop.”

“So now you own two,” Frank says.

“Yes.”

Frank blinks. Considers. Reaches across the table and touches Sophia’s arm. “Would you give us a moment?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. She taps on her phone another moment, and then stands, picks up her clutch, and puts her coat over her arm, wanders off.

“Sit,” Frank says, pointing at the chair that she just vacated.

James waffles about it a moment, and then sits.

“Explain.”

“Well,” James says. “I was bored.”

“So you said,” Frank says.

(The beard is a good look. It suits him. James should tell him, but he’s pretty sure he’s mentioned it four times already today, and Frank will just accuse him of distracting from the topic at hand, which, to be fair, he is doing. Because the beard is nice. But he can probably just mention it after the fact.)

“So I bought another coffeeshop.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And now I have two?”

“You can’t clone Blanky,” Frank points out.

“No,” James agrees, “but he said that now that he’s not doing the managerial work, he can handle the roasting for two places.”

“Ah,” Frank says. He makes that face like he’s biting the inside of his cheek, glances up at the ceiling for a moment. “Alright, then. I’ll manage the second location.”

James stares at him. “You said—”

“I said,” Frank says patiently, “that you didn’t need me when you had one store, because you’re perfectly capable of managing it yourself, and I was right.”

“Well—”

“But now you have two stores, and you need a second manager, don’t you?”

“I _do_ ,” James says.

“Well, I’ll do it,” Frank says, in that tone of voice which means it’s been decided, and there’s no use having any further discussion about it. It’s a tone of voice best used in bed, but there’s some secondary applications of the voice as well. Primarily, this one, actually, which is doing rather a lot to relieve James of much of the anxiety he’d been carrying when he came over here in the first place.

(James absolutely loves the _hell_ out of Francis Crozier, and there are literally not enough words to be able to tell him so.)

“I like the beard,” he says instead.

“You mentioned that,” Frank says calmly, but his face goes slightly pink, and when James leans in for a kiss, Frank kisses him back right there, in front of God, everyone, and fifty percent of the coffeeshops that James Clark Ross owns.

So there.

**Author's Note:**

> James rebrands the coffeeshops as _Two Captains_ , and then sub-brands them as _Erebus_ and _Terror_ when Francis complains it's confusing.
> 
> The lung disease issue that Francis cites is skimmed and manipulated for my purposes from [this article and others like it.](https://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2016/04/15/474325037/coffee-workers-concerns-brew-over-chemicals-link-to-lung-disease) The more you know!!
> 
> The only good ending available in _Choose Your Own Adventure: Arctic Expedition_ is the one on page thirteen, when the reader opts to turn the entire ship around and go home.
> 
> Sophia has absolutely shared a wealth of compliments about Francis to Ann, but Ann knows how to keep a secret, so she didn't pass any of that information on to James. She reasons--and she's right--that James would rather find out by himself. The joy of discovery, and all that.
> 
> Acknowledgements to follow once works are revealed, watch this space! <3


End file.
